


Name Day Rewards

by WendyNerd



Series: Switch [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom!Jon, Dom!Sansa, F/M, Femdom, Maledom, Oral Sex, Sex, Two Parter, sub!Jon, sub!Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4990138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King's Name Day and the Queen's Announcement lead to both the Good Girl and the Bastard Boy coming out to play.</p><p>First chapter: The King/The Good Girl. Dedicated to a tumblr anon who posted the prompt: "Jon's good girl gets pregnant, Jon cannot decide if this means she has been VERY good or REALLY good."</p><p>Second Chapter: The Queen/The Bastard Boy (Dedicated to Neliore)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ribbons and Fruit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neliore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/gifts).



> Warning: unbeta'd!

If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was watching his lady wife prepare herself in the morning. Sansa had always been meticulous with her appearance, and it was something Jon had come to admire quite unexpectedly. But he’d come to realize watching his lady wife fasten her silks that she was arming herself as much as he did when he donned his mail. It was downright fascinating sometimes. 

Unfortunately, his duties as king often drew him from his chambers early, rarely ever affording him the opportunity to watch the way he’d like to.

This morning, thank the gods, would be one of those rare occasions. It was his Name Day, and the night before, his wife had arranged an opulent banquet in his honor. Then she’d outdone herself with a little announcement that had required him to excuse himself briefly to wipe the tears from his eyes and compose himself for his guests. During that short excursion, he’d put the word out to the staff and the council that under no circumstances were the king and queen to be disturbed the following day. He gave his Hand, Lord Blackwood, leave to handle the realm for the day, and told the staff not to come unless called.

Thus, this morning, Jon laid on his side and watched eagerly as his queen slept, naked beneath the navy coverlet, which fell just so that most of one rosy nipple was exposed. The rising sun cast her fair skin in a golden glow and bringing out the copper highlights in her uncharacteristically-mussed auburn hair. Jon had been the one to muss it the night before, overcome with passion for the woman in his arms, yanking out the ribbons and clips that had held her artfully arranged braids in place. She’d worn ivory the night before, and even now, strips of ivory satin ribbon were scattered through the bedclothes, along with the odd diamond-tipped clip. As he watched her sleep, Jon slowly and carefully gathered some of the ornaments up. He placed them in a little pile on his bedside table, trying to distract himself from the near-overwhelming urge to latch his mouth onto the tip of her teat.

Once everything was gathered, Jon found the need to disturb her rest even harder to resist. So the young king put his mind to exactly what he wished to do once she woke. He got to his feet carefully, scurrying over to his wife’s dressing table and collected her brush, a bundle of ribbons, some of her skin treatments, the pitcher of water, some rose-scented soap and the cloth that had been laid out for her the night before, then hurrying back to bed, relieved to see he hadn’t woken her yet. He placed the things on his bedside table and, unable to take it much longer, he took a navy velvet ribbon. 

As carefully as he could, Jon dangled the ribbon by one end over his wife’s shoulder, slowly lowering his hand so the other edge teased her skin. She stirred slightly, eyes still closed, and Jon grinned. Trying not to laugh at how her nose wrinkled, he dragged the length of velvet up and down the length of one slim, porcelain arm.

Sansa jerked then, eyes bursting open and blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the light of the summer morning. Quick as a snake, she snatched the ribbon, yanking it towards herself roughly enough to take her husband by surprise. To his absolute shock, Jon suddenly found himself on his back, with his wife straddling him, her hands on his throat.

Jon’s jaw dropped. She’d done it so quickly, so fluidly, with the same sort of defensive instinct he himself had acquired over the years. Jon resisted the near-overpowering urge to wrestle her into submission that seized him upon being handled this way, and gasped as pressure came down onto his windpipe.

Almost as quickly as it came down, however, the pressure disappeared as Sansa let out a cry of surprise and released his neck. “Jon! Oh gods, I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?!” 

She looked down at him, blue eyes the size of saucers, cheeks deepening in pinkish hue, breasts heaving as she gasped, hair seemingly ablaze in the rays of the summer sun. Jon felt his cock pressing against the swell of her arse. Without a doubt, this was the most beautiful he’d ever seen her.

The king cleared his throat, then let out a bark of laughter. “No, no Sweetling. Almost, but not quite. I almost wish you had, though. Where did you learn to do that?”

His wife shrank back and she seized her lower lip between her teeth for a second. “The Vale. The North. I--- I never thought I’d ever do it again. I’m sorry.”

The thrill of the moment dampened then. Sansa didn’t much like discussing that period of her life. Jon reached up then and cupped her chin. “I’m sorry I scared you, Love. I didn’t know. But you’re fine, you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sansa took a deep breath, calming herself, then bent down to kiss him lightly on the lips, her hair cascading around them with a wall of red. For a second, they were in their own little world. Her sapphire eyes looked down on him lovingly. “I know,” she whispered, a smile playing at her full lips.

She gave him another kiss before lifting her head and looking at the velvet ribbon she had clutched in her fist. Her eyes then drifted to the little end table where all her things were piled up. Her face then split into a wicked grin, and ever-so-carefully, she rocked her hips against him. Jon moaned, the passion returning in full force.

“Was my husband planning something for his Name Day?” Sansa wondered with a mock-innocence. Jon struggled to regain his senses.

“Your king was,” he told her, staring up at her. His hands snaked up her hips to her waist and--- just a tad more gently than he normally would--- he rolled her off him onto her back.

Sansa’s gaze was coy. “Oh, does my king have a Name Day wish he’d ask of his Good Girl?”

Jon sat up and looked down at her, smirking. “Your king has a Name Day reward for his Good Girl.”

Her mouth fell open. “Does he now?" 

“Mmmmhmmm.” Jon reached over and slid the velvet ribbon out from her loosening grip. “As was established last night, my lady, you are now carrying a rather precious parcel.” 

His Good Girl nodded, her hand drifting down to her lower belly. Jon’s lips joined it, pressing a soft kiss to her flesh. He felt her pulse quicken and he smiled as he raised his head.

“And such a fulfillment of duty ought to be rewarded. But… It also draws some concern. Your safety, never a small matter to begin with, has become of even greater importance than before, if such a thing is possible. Thus, I have determined that for the good of the Seven Realms, I cannot permit my Good Girl to leave this bed.”

Sansa let out a bark of laughter. “Is that so, my king?" 

“It is,” he said with mock-insistence. 

“And here I thought my king too sweet and merciful to make a captive out of an innocent lady like myself.” 

“You’re not so innocent,” Jon corrected her, pausing to stroke one of her breasts, drawing lazy circles around the edge of that nipple he still craved. Sansa shivered at his movements, and he smirked. “I’ve seen to that myself. But, since I am, as you say, a sweet and merciful king, I intend to make your confinement as enjoyable as possible.” 

“Regardless, my king, I cannot permit you to keep me hostage like this.”

Jon pretended to scowl. “I’m afraid you have no say in the matter.” 

With that, he grabbed one of her wrists and began fastening it with the velvet ribbon. Exchanging a wicked look with her, he tied the wrist to the bedpost, double-knotting it. They both moaned as he hovered over her to fasten her wrist, their bodies so close they could feel the heat radiating off of one another.

“My king,” Sansa whined as he reluctantly pulled back, “I’ll be ever so lonely here. How am I to make sure that you don’t leave me?”

Jon took her free arm and kissed the inside of the wrist. “I’ll let you have one free hand, so if I look like I’m leaving you, you can pull me back.”

She stroked his cheek. “Thank you, my king.”

“You’re welcome, Good Girl.” He continued pressing small kisses to her wrist, going up the soft stretch of her forearm to her elbow.

“But my king…”

“…Yes?”

“Our precious parcel and I have to stay healthy. And we can’t be healthy if I can’t stay clean. How will I bathe in bed?”

 Jon grinned. _Thank you, Sweetling. That didn’t take you long._ “Easy, Sweet Girl, I will bathe you.”

He pulled away from her then and reached for the cloth, pitcher, and soap. As he wetted and lathered the cloth, his Good Girl drove him wild by stroking her body with her free hand. When her fingers neared the thatch of red curls between her legs, Jon hissed. “Stop that.”

Sansa groaned and resigned herself to playing with her breasts. Finally, Jon descended on her, pressing the soapy wet cloth to her belly and running it in ever-widening circles. With the way his wife gasped and writhed, he half-expected steam to rise up from her skin. Once he’d cleaned her belly, he began kissing it again, and his hand moved to her breasts. Sansa moaned and clutched his curls with her free hand as his mouth finally moved to her bosom while he cleaned her neck and face next. Jon lavished attention upon her teats, nibbling at the tips hungrily as his wife cried out. Once he finished washing her face, though, he reluctantly pulled away to rinse and re-lather the cloth so he could wash her limbs. He started with her arms, playfully dabbing at them, then sucked on her fingers as he went to scrub her feet. Before he got to her ankles, though, he re-lathered again before resuming, worshipping every inch of her freshly-cleansed skin with his mouth as her worked his way up her long, slim legs. 

When he finally got to the heavenly crevice between her legs, he of course took his time. And it was with great satisfaction that he brought her to her first peak with his hands as he peppered her inner thighs with kisses and lapped up the fluid of her arousal. But he gave her no reprieve with her first peak, latching onto her nub with his mouth the moment she screamed his name. As he tasted her, she gripped his hair so hard he was sure he’d be bald. He hardly minded. 

To his shock, though, when he brought her to her pleasure again, she recovered more easily than he did. He was rested his lips upon her mound and inhaling her scent when she moaned, “You forgot the back.”

Growling, Jon flipped her onto her side and got her panting again as he washed her back and bottom. He moved up alongside her as he did, kissing and nibbling at her neck and shoulders, finally pressing his aching, leaking cock between her legs.

“Does my Good Girl want to get fucked?”

“Oh, yes, my king!” She moaned, “Your Good Girl wants to get fucked so very, very badly!”

“Gods, Sansa!” Jon gasped, breaking character momentarily in his shock at her words. Mad with lust, he lifted one of her legs and thrust up into her, crying out at the sensation.

She bucked against him, and was so hot, and slick, and perfect. He didn’t last long, spilling within her with a cry that could wake the Others again. 

Jon pulled out of her with a groan and fell onto his back, his wife falling back onto him. Her free hand snaked up to clutch the side of his face and pull him down for a sweet kiss. They lay like that for quite a while, basking in each other. Jon’s hand her hair, stroking it between his fingers. 

He untied her briefly to let her relieve herself and rinse her mouth before they resumed character again. Jon inspected her wrist for signs of bruising, and decided to fasten her ankle this time instead.

“My king?” Sansa asked him coyly as he bound her delicate leg to the end of the bed. “How will I eat if I’m to stay in bed?”

Jon pressed an affectionate kiss to her foot then got up to pull on his dressing gown. “I will get you food.”

“But how will I balance the platter while in bed?”

Jon winked at her. “You’ll see, Sweetling.”

He briefly ventured to the hall to instruct some guards to send for some food to be brought to the solar outside. While they waited for it, he applied some salve to Sansa’s wrist and brushed her hair. When they heard the maids delivering the food depart, he smiled. “Now, you’re going to eat every bite, or I’ll redden your bottom with this,” he told her, shaking the brush.

Sansa pouted. “Hardly an incentive,” she replied with a sniff.

 _You’re too much._ “Fine, eat every bite, or I _won’t_ redden your bottom with this. Better?” 

“Much!” 

Jon mulled this over as he carried the food in, however. His wife was, after all, now carrying his babe. _But then, it’s been just over two moons,_ he thought to himself, _I’ve paddled her in that time. I’ll just be gentle._

The king brought the trays in, placed them on a table by the window, then smirked as he carried two handfuls of fruit over to the bed. He got on his back, then  scattered the grapes and the slices of orange onto his chest, belly, and finally, his cock. “Your breakfast.”

Sansa gasped and got on all fours, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh, that’s so clever, my king!”

“Thank you.” He stopped her before she lowered her head to nibble a grape off his collar bone, however, making her ties her hair back first. “I just finished brushing it, after all.”

She giggled and tied it back with a quick eagerness that heated his blood. Kittenlike and lovely, she began breaking her fast upon him. Jon hissed and clutched the bedclothes as her clever mouth worked lower and lower, seizing the bits of fruit between her teeth and lapping the sticky fluid off his skin. His cock stiffened again as she moved until finally, she was face to face with his manhood. She paused, looked up at him, and coyly asked, “May I suck you, my king?” 

He managed a strangled cry of permission, then threw his head back as she took him into her mouth. When he came, she swallowed his seed and at the end, she beamed at him. “I ate it all!”

“You did,” he gasped. 

“Will you be eating your breakfast on a similar tray, Your Grace?” She asked, eyes huge. 

“I don’t think I could take such a meal at the moment, to be honest. Even kings need rest,” he confessed. But he smiled. “I’d much rather have you feed me.”

He pulled himself up again and went to alter her shackle, lengthening it with yet more ribbon so she could move around the bed more easily. Then he went to get another plate of fruit, handed it to her, and went to lay down once more beside her. Sansa giggled and took a grape between her fingers, holding it over his mouth. Jon smiled and let her drop it in, biting in and reveling in the sensation of the juice filling his mouth. 

“Will my king be requiring a bath once he has broken his fast?” Sansa wondered, stroking his cheek as she dropped a slice of peach into his mouths. Jon considered this, chewed, then swallowed. 

“Your king has a promise to keep regarding a hair brush and one very, very good girl’s arse,” he replied, eyes flashing. “He will not be requiring a bath.” Then he brushed the surface of his chest with his fingertips, feelings the sticky remnants of the juice. “But after that, I think there may be one filthy bastard boy who might need a queen’s clever hand to get him clean.”

Sansa’s blue eyes flashed, and she grinned. “Well then, I suppose a queen must do her duty.”  
  



	2. Courtesies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen and her Bastard Boy prepare for the evening's festivities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd!
> 
> Also, I used this collection of pics for inspiration here: http://wendynerdwrites.tumblr.com/post/131055813902/whenever-i-write-a-good-girl-story-these-are.
> 
> Also, partly dedicated to Neliore, who prefers slash but prefers femdom with her het. I think/hope this was along the lines of what you discussed in your answer to my ask :) (minus the Satin bit. This is a pre-established series, and Satin isn't in it, but otherwise, this is the Sansa-works-up-to-it thing)

Chapter Two: Courtesies

Sansa groaned and stretched upon the bed as her husband massaged a soothing salve into her backside, which was suitably pink. Jon was almost as good with his hands as he was with his tongue, and it often made her wonder where he’d learned such things. Her experiences with men’s hands rarely included the word “gentle” or “soothing.” Especially not with men whose fingers were as callused as Jon’s, men who were as martial and suited to fighting as Jon. 

The queen was unused to being comfortable with most hands touching her, but especially men’s hands. Even maesters, trained to be delicate and gentle, usually unsettled her. To this day, she could still remember Grand Maester Pycelle’s hands on her after she’d fainted upon seeing her father’s murder. She’d been held down as the man examined her. It was why Sansa usually preferred to have a Septa see to her medical needs. The only maester Sansa used was Maester Samwell, whom Jon convinced her to use. His hands were truly gentle, and he didn’t make her as uncomfortable. Indeed, his shy sweetness and nervousness made her forget her own fears and reach out to him.

There were really only four men in the world Sansa could have contact with without wanting to recoil physically. Two were her little brothers, Sam was another, and Jon was the fourth. And by far, he was the one whose touch she loved the most out of perhaps anyone, male or female. 

She even liked it when he struck her, hence her current position on her belly while her bastard boy lovingly rubbed the minty salve into her reddened flesh. Jon only ever struck her backside, and only with his hands or some sort of light paddle (in today’s case, her brush), and only when she bid him to do it. It shocked her that she enjoyed such a thing as much as it shocked her husband. Especially given her history. She’d been struck before, and never had she enjoyed it. But there was something about the localized nature of this activity, about it being a her backside only, like she was a naughty child rather than a prisoner or plaything, that thrilled her. It of course helped that it didn’t happen unless she asked for it, that she could tell the person doing it to stop or do it softer or harder or slower, that it was done by someone who loved her and would never, ever hurt her.

It was a study in contrasts, really. She was once a little girl who was always on edge trying to keep someone she loathed happy with her, but ultimately unable to prevent or stop harm from coming to her when someone was determined. She was once at the mercy of mailed fists and blades and unable to do a thing to stop it when a rage hit a monstrous king, forced to just take it, hope for someone to come and save her. Then have to suffer in silence as her enemies’ attendants treated and washed her wounds and offered empty comforts, unable to be open with anyone, then have to smile and lavish affection on her tormenters the next day, manically wearing herself thin trying to keep their anger in check, all while looking forward to a future of being raped by her father’s killer, being called queen, and having the court laugh and turn the other way as her king tormented her.

Today, she didn’t need to fear an unexpected strike or pain. She did not have to worry about not breathing too hard lest she provoke some random large bruise on her belly that one of the kingsguard gave her. She did not have to smile or fake love for anyone she hated. Or worry about harm coming to her for things she could not control. If she felt pain, it was because she wanted it, and it was only where she wanted it, how she wanted it, when she wanted it. She got what she literally asked for. It stopped when she said. Afterwards, she’d be treated by familiar, loving hands attached to someone who cared about how she felt, whom she could trust. She did not need to rely on more-sympathetic enemies, drunken Florians, or threatening non-knights to keep her safe. Or covering bruises and cuts with cosmetics. She did not have to lie to anyone who upset her. Her king was not someone to fear, but someone to talk to. And he was willing to do his own work, not hide behind a false veneer of chivalry. 

Oddly enough, like many of the things about Jon, him striking her backside reminded her of home. Not that she was paddled much as a child--- she actually did not have any memories of such things. Once in a great, great while, Arya or one of the boys was punished that way, but only for the most dire of transgressions. Sansa, on the other hand, almost never misbehaved and when she did displease her parents or Septa, it was in a very minor way for which an hour in her room or a denial of desserts at dinner could suffice as a punishment.

What made Sansa think of home, strangely enough, was the fact that Jon did it himself. Her father was no great fan of violence, and he always preached that if a man sentences someone to death, it was his duty to carry out the execution himself, look that man in the eye, and be willing to do his own work. “The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.”

In contrast, Joffrey always had his kingsguard hurt her, because it wasn’t “kingly” for a king to hit his lady. For the sake of his own image and ego, he hid behind a false veneer of chivalry while he tormented her, while also reminding her that he could have anyone he wished harm her. Joffrey, weakling that he was, would never be able to inflict the same level of damage as his kingsguard could, but he would never want her to doubt the harm he could cause her. With every beating, Sansa was reminded that there was a veritable crowd of armed, powerful men sworn to defend the innocent who would bloody her with a word from a tempestuous boy.

But Jon was no weakling, Jon did his work himself. Jon was true to his words and convictions, like a man of honor. And he respected her wishes and didn’t hide behind anyone. He was true and real with her. And he was strong enough to paddle her bottom to her satisfaction when she asked for it. The directness with which he did things was refreshing against the false court. He would never be false with her, or flinch away from his actions, he would face what he did and never grow detached.

And there was the intimacy of it, as well. Being paddled was an odd predilection, Sansa knew (or guessed, she’d never asked anyone else). But she never had to worry about being judged for it. It was something the two of them shared. It was close and secret.

Then there were the rubs he gave her afterwards, which, like everything else they did together, felt incredible.

Sansa groaned and buried her face in the navy velvet of their coverlet, enjoying the feel of it against her bare skin. Against her breasts, her belly, her thighs, her arms. She was once a girl who had to fear being beaten by a king. Now she was a girl who had a king who massaged her body after worshipping it.

That was another odd thing their interactions inspired in her: the feeling of power. Even, or especially when, she was the Good Girl obeying her King. Ultimately, it ended up with a king, a true king, doing exactly what she wanted to her body, then rubbing her down, lavishing affection on her, getting her tea, loving her. There was a specific set of guidelines that accompanied how her king treated her, what he could and could not do, and he always followed them. He played by her rules. The king played by the good girl’s rules. Being courteous, following the guidelines that she’d been taught as a girl and had carried her through years of strife and danger always felt natural to her. It kept her safe. Courtesy was her armor. Pleasing and manipulating were her weapons. And they’d always been good ones, ones she wielded better than any other. To use them in a setting where it could and would only ever result in her being rewarded and worshipped, and making someone else happy was just heaven to her. She could feel safe, could feel like she was defending herself, could do what she did best, and know that this time, it would always work out exactly as she wished. And it would end with a king, a true king, a strong, brave, powerful king whom others feared and loved, playing on her terms, peppering her with kisses, telling her she was incredible, pleasuring her, and massaging her back. 

Never, in her life, had Sansa felt so safe as she did when she was alone with Jon, naked, loving, and held. She was safe, comfortable, and worshipped in the very scenario she’d once feared the most. 

Of course, her time as the Good Girl would have to come to an end soon. Her bastard boy had needs too. Sansa took a deep breath, then turned her head to look up at her husband. He knelt over her, glorious in his nakedness, broad shoulders gleaming in the late-morning sun. His grey eyes caught hers and he smiled. “You look pleased.”

“Mmmmhmmm. Your queen is pleased, for the most part.”

Jon’s eyes flickered and his hands flew from her flesh. He sat back in a more stationary kneeling position, back straight, hands in his lap, eyes down, trying to repress the smile on his face. The game had changed. The King and his Good Girl were gone. Now it was the Queen and her Bastard Boy.

Jon was by far the most natural leader Sansa had ever seen, but the burdens of leadership were great, and he needed a reprieve. Unfortunately, being king rarely allowed him such things, and she was the only person who could give that to him. He needed time to follow, to be ordered, to let go of control.

She started with some orders. “Get a drying cloth from my dressing table and wipe the excess salve from me. Put the jar away as well. Then fetch our dressing gowns. You need a bath, bastard boy. You’re covered in fruit juice.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Jon jumped to do as he was told, moving methodically and efficiently. Many men were ham-handed, disorganized, but Jon made sure to open and close each drawer carefully, screw the lid on the little glass jar tight, put everything in its proper place. He was a soldier at heart, and as much a perfectionist as she was.

He came over with the robes and a small drying cloth from her dressing table and wiped the excess salve away from her skin. Sansa rolled over and put on her blue silk before helping Jon into his black. She paused to kiss his neck affectionately and ruffle his hair, then glanced over at the sundial near the window. It was near midday.

“I’m going to call for lunch and a bath for you. I want you to put my hair things away. Oh, and untie me!” She giggled, realizing her ankle was still connected to the bedpost by several lengths of ribbon.

“Yes, my queen.”

Sansa went to the hall and gave the guards leave to send her maids, Marta and Lorey, to her. Both women were discreet, hardened, and efficient Northern women she’d brought with her from Winterfell. Nearly all of their personal staff actually came from the North or the Riverlands and had special connections to the Starks or Tullys, or were former Watch or Free Folk whom Jon had helped. Sansa had made sure of it. She instructed her women to set up lunch in the solar, then set up a bath in her dressing chamber, collect the laundry from the bedchamber while they ate, and leave. “You may come back to get the food, but not the bath things until you’re sent for.”

As was usual, her orders were followed to the letter. Sansa returned to find that Jon had carefully put her hair things in order. She rewarded him with a kiss, then brought him out for lunch, reminding him to “eat every bite” with a wink. After the maids shuffled through with buckets of steaming water, Sansa smiled at her husband from across the table, took one sticky, paper-wrapped honey-cake from a silver plate, then discreetly slipped it underneath the table, pausing to pull her robe up a bit so none of the honey got on it. She watched the knot in his throat bob.

“Now, my bastard boy, do not forget, one must wait for dessert, for the sake of both one’s well-being and propriety.”

A small whine escaped him. “Y-yes, my queen.”

Sansa made him wait until the servants had collected the laundry and most of the plates and things from the table. She liked testing Jon’s patience. Then she smiled. “Alright, bastard boy, you may have your dessert.”

He practically dove under the table and crawled towards her. Sansa opened her legs with glee as she felt his breath on her thighs. For a little while, he teased her, actually eating the honey-cake. So when she felt his sticky lips near her cunny, she stopped him with a disapproving finger. Jon looked up at her in dismay, but Sansa grinned wickedly and picked up her cup of water. “Take a drink.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, my queen,” he teased her, dabbing at some of the fluid that ran on her inner thighs with a finger. “There’s nothing more wet than what’s right here.”

“Naughty Bastard Boy!” Sansa replied, giving him a playful slap to the cheek. “First, you rinse your mouth out. Getting those sticky lips on me is unclean!”

Jon sighed and took the cup from her, drinking deep from it.  Once she was satisfied, she took it back. “You may resume.”

And then…. There it was. That sweet, clever mouth upon her mound and nub. First he gave a little kiss to the hair between her legs. He always did this. The hair between her legs was a shade or two lighter than the hair on her head. Jon had told her about how red hair was considered lucky, and said that he thought that the brightness of her lower hair made it “even luckier”. He liked kissing it for luck before parting her folds. Which he then proceeded to do, nuzzling the pink flesh he found beneath them with his nose before licking one long stripe from her entrance to the tip of her nub and latching onto her bud with hungry lips. And at once, Sansa saw stars.

Sansa would never get over how much the two of them enjoyed this activity. She’d been shocked and scandalized by it before. But it was too good to resist. When she provided her husband the same service, she found that she did not mind it as much as she expected, even enjoying the affect it seemed to have on him. But the act itself of sucking him wasn’t something she adored more than anything.

Jon, on the other hand, seemed to love giving as much as he enjoyed receiving, which sometimes made Sansa feel a bit guilty. But if Jon noticed, he didn’t seem to mind that his enthusiasm for giving pleasure with his mouth far outstripped hers. Whatever made him happy, though.

As he worked, Sansa struggled to keep still and not cry out too loudly, less she unwittingly draw the guards in. The risk of it did thrill her, but that didn’t mean she wanted that threat to actually come to fruition. There was already enough gossip in the Red Keep. She’d worked hard to maintain a respectable image, and didn’t want that being undermined.

When her peak hit her, she found herself biting down on her lip and almost ripping Jon’s hair out in an effort to keep quiet. It took her a while to recover, with Jon watching her, wide-eyed, from his position under the table, chin perched on the seat between her shaking legs. Sansa panted and looked down at those sweet eyes, smiled and stroked his cheek.

“Good little bastard,” she whispered, “Now, time for your bath, I think.”

She led him back to her dressing room, where the large copper tub they used was placed before her large, full-length mirror. The room was off to the side of their bedchamber, used mostly for keep excess clothes and things, with no windows and thick stone walls. It was lit primarily by a chandelier at the center of the room, giving everything a low glow. Sansa smiled at her boy, stripped them both, then helped him into the tub, enjoying the sight of his nude form descending into the steaming water. Her bastard boy was hard. He groaned as he settled in, leaning back. 

“Thank you, my queen.”

She shushed him, lathering an assembled cleaning cloth with soap and water before getting in with him, settling across from him. “Now, I’m going to give you a nice wash, alright? Turn around so I can get your back first." 

He did as told, and Sansa hummed to him as she scrubbed his back, occasionally kissing his neck. When she finished, he settled back and let her scrub his legs as well. When she got to the place between his legs, she pretended to be shocked to find his manhood stiff. “How filthy! Is that how one reacts to the kindness of their queen?”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. You’re so beautiful, and a bastard like me cannot help it.”

“Well,” Sansa said, sighing and running the cloth along his length. “We’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?”

With a wicked smile, she moved her hand from his cock and went to wash his chest and arms, conjuring a cry of surprise from him. He looked at her with a desperate yearning. Sansa answered it by squeezing some hair-wash into her hands, then moving forward, impaling herself on his cock, burying his face between her breasts, and running soapy fingers through his thick curls.

As she rode him, she kept him close, telling him how she loved him, how good he was, asking him how he liked this. He suckled at her breasts appreciatively, bucking his hips towards her, loving her. As they moved, water sloshed over the sides of the tub, and the small chamber echoed with their cries. The pressure between her hips mounted and mounted until finally, she came apart around him. He spilled within her soon after.

What came next was a fairly normal, warm bath time. He washed her hair and combed it. Jon did so love her hair. And when they got out, she toweled him dry and helped him into a fresh tunic and breeches.

“Shall we carry this on to the banquet?” The Queen asked her Bastard Boy as he helped her into her shift.

Jon grinned and nodded. “And after, if possible.”

Sansa smiled. “Well then, I suppose I must select appropriate attire for my Bastard Boy if he is to accompany me.” 

She went to his wardrobe and found a high-collared doublet of black silk with silver trim at the collar, along with a black silk vest with pewter-colored vines embroidered on it. Matching hose and a velvet cape were selected as well. To complete it was his walking stick of polished black wood, with a silver wolf’s head handle. Jon carried it and claimed it was for when the wound in his leg bothered him. They both knew better.

When Jon saw it, his eyes flashed, but Sansa continued to make him wait by selecting her own attire for the evening. She had him sit on the bed and hold his walking stick as he waited for her. Her bastard boy loved her in blue and white, so that was what she chose: ivory Myrish lace trimmed in royal blue velvet, with a low, wide neckline. Sitting at her dressing table, she chose a silver necklace with sapphires the size of pennies, a matching cuff for her wrist, and a matching circlet and silver hair net, then looked over at Jon and made him come to her. “Bring the stick.”

He did so, watching her anxiously, handing her the cane. Still perched upon her bench, Sansa made him turn so his back was to her. Smiling, she ran the rounded handle of the cane up his spine, conjuring shivers from him.

“I have selected some very fine attire for you this evening,” she said, running the end of the cane up and down his back. “I want to make sure you hold yourself well enough to show it off properly.”

“Y-yes, my queen.”

“So let’s practice. Just because you’re a bastard does not mean you should have a bastard’s bearing. You must keep your back straight and your head high.” She held the cane up against his back to demonstrate and smiled as he adjusted himself. “You’re going to help me with my hair and jewelry. Fetch a chair and sit behind me as you dress it. As you do, you are to keep your back straight. If you keep your posture straight, you’ll be rewarded. Slouch too much, and you won’t be. In fact, slouch too much, and I won’t let you continue to fix my hair. I’ll call my maids in to help me prepare instead. Understand?" 

He nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good. Go fetch a chair. Walk tall as you do so.”

She watched him with a critical eye as he followed her directions. And, to Jon’s credit, he did it perfectly, back straight and kingly as he moved. But then, he always had good posture. He was raised along with lordlings, after all. It was more of a game they played than anything.

Jon brushed and arranged her hair with the same perfection, like a man in love. He let out a sigh of disappointment when she ordered that her hair be put up in the net, and the look on his face was so sweet that she relented. “Fine, arrange the net so it just pulls my hair away from my face and necks and cascades down my back. But it cannot fall on my shoulders or chest. My jewels must be on display.”

“Yes, my queen. Thank you. May I touch it tonight? In front of the court?”

“Not until I say you may,” she told him, “And then only discreetly.”

“Of course.”

His fingers trembled a bit as he fastened her necklace on, and she could feel his urge to linger there. His face flushed a bit and she could see what was playing inside his head, the desire to kiss her neck and shoulders. She almost gave in.

Her hair and jewelry ended up perfectly arranged and, sparkling in silver and sapphires, crowned and elegant, Sansa knew she looked ever inch a queen. Jon, for his part, held himself as a king the whole time. Only their clothing was missing, as they were still merely clad in their shift and tunic. 

Sansa smirked. “Go stand by the bed.”

He did so, back still straight, but eyes cast down submissively. Sansa inspected her appearance one last time, took a velvet ribbon from a drawer, then walked over to her Bastard Boy and fell to her knees. She first bound his wrists behind him around the bedpost, then conjured a shudder from him by slowly unlacing his breeches. With a gentle hand, she pulled his cock and stones out, caressing them gently as her husband moaned and writhed. “My Bastard Boy holds himself well. And for that, he shall be well-rewarded.” 

She engulfed his length in her mouth, conjuring a loud cry from him. She felt his hands strain against his bonds, and smirked.

“Oh gods, S-my queen! So good! Thank you! Thank you!” He cried.

She always made him mind his courtesies when in the presence of his queen.


End file.
